Tales From The Planes
by Winged Knight
Summary: Some drabbles about various things I've been curious about in the Magic: The Gathering multiverse. I wanted to try my hand at something new, and I think it turned out all right all things considered.
1. Fathers and Daughters

Fathers and Daughters

The sun setting across the valley was a magnificent sight, bathing the land in gold and setting the sky on fire. Already people down there were setting up fires and playing music, another grand feast to celebrate the end of Innistrad's long night! "Avacyn has returned!" they cried, many already deep in their cups. "Humanity has prevailed!" they cheered, all of them happy to be alive. In the weeks since the archangel's return the human race had made a remarkable comeback against what, until then, had been almost certain doom. They were still intoxicated with it, and now that things had settled a bit they could indulge in their revelry properly. They had been doing so for days now.

Perched above them all at the top of the valley, arms behind his back, Sorin Markov wondered what they would all think if they knew he had created the angel they so praised. The thought amused him for a few seconds, but gradually it faded and he put it out of his mind. He found the fading light of the day much more interesting than the musings of the men and women below him.

Sorin had always liked sunsets. A strange thing for a vampire, true, but it was a fact. It was the mix of colors that intrigued him so. They wove together in such a harmonious blend that it stimulated even his jaded sensibilities. Even after so much time he adored the setting of the sun, and the minor discomfort of its fading light was a small cost to enjoy the splendor before him.

A presence behind him drew his attention briefly, but he made no move in response to it. The presence, in turn, remained silent, seemingly enjoying the sunset along with the ancient vampire. Finally, when the sun dipped below the horizon, the planeswalker turned and addressed his guest.

"Hello, Avacyn."

She was how he remembered, unchanged since the day he made her. Tall and statuesque, she was strikingly beautiful. Her black dress suited her well, as did the spear in her hand. She looked at him as imperiously as he looked at her, confident in her power. That was fine, for it suited her. Power was her birthright.

The wind blew her long white hair behind her in waves, and he could not help but think of how similar they looked. Had it been some subconscious narcissism, or perhaps merely a side effect of the spell he'd set in motion? One or the other, or perhaps both? In truth, the reason didn't really matter. It was the result that counted, and Sorin did not find it unpleasing.

"Hello," she responded, her voice firm even if quiet. "Father."

Sorin motioned to the side, where chairs and a small table with food and wine had been set. Avacyn quirked a brow at her sire, looking at him confused before moving toward the ensemble. She set her spear aside before taking the seat opposite the cliff's edge, taking special care for her wings. Sorin was but one step behind her, sitting down with a small flourish of his coat.

"I must say," he began as he cut into what looked to be poached pheasant. "I'm glad you found time to meet with me. I know you must be terribly busy, what with Innistrad's shameful state after so many months without you."

"I will manage," she said curtly, which drew Sorin's eyes back to her. She hadn't moved since sitting down, merely crossing her arms and glaring at him. The vampire took a bite of the meat, looking into her pale eyes. You could only see the silver irises if you looked closely, making it appear from afar that her eyes were completely white. One would think eyes like those would be hard to read, but you could catch a remarkable amount of emotion within them. He sighed and set his food down, leaning his chin on steepled hands.

"You're upset."

"I am not."

"Come now, don't lie to me."

Avacyn responded with silence, and Sorin had to restrain another sigh. Something was indeed upsetting his angel.

"Avacyn," he said, to which she simply closed her eyes. The motion confused him, but he pressed on. "Avacyn, talk to me. You know you can tell me whatever it is that's troubling you."

"No," she spat out, anger bleeding into her voice. Her eyes snapped open, full of fire. "I don't know. I hardly ever see you."

_Ah,_ Sorin thought. _Now we get to the meat of the issue._

"I hardly ever see you," she said again, venom growing with every word. "And now you wish to speak with me after I was trapped for almost a year? Why? Did you come to make sure your masterpiece of order wasn't damaged?"

"No. That isn't why I asked you to meet with me."

"Then why?" Avacyn responded, her voice the loudest it had been all night. It wasn't quite a shout, but it was close. "You're gone for centuries, doing the light knows what across the whole of existence, and I only see you again after I break free from hell!" She slammed her hands on the table, only just restraining herself from breaking the wood. "Where were you?"

Sorin took a deep breath, closing his eyes and composing himself. Her tone annoyed him, and from anyone else he would not have accepted it. But for her, he would. She had the right, and it was only natural she would feel this way.

After all, what child wouldn't want their parent to come for her when she was hurt?

"I'm sorry," he said, his tone completely lacking the usual arrogance and charm he exuded as easily as breathing. Avacyn's mouth snapped shut, her rant cut short in the face of the honest sadness in her father's amber eyes. Sorin Markov was apologizing? "I should have been here earlier, tried harder to find you. I wasn't able to save you, and I'm sorry for that. I wanted to see you again. I wanted to make sure you were all right."

For several minutes there was silence, father and daughter alone in the night. He looked at her, and she looked to the side, avoiding his gaze. The vampire noticed the conflicting emotions warring on his angel's face, sadness and confusion and anger. And laced through everything was the most damning emotion of them all, the one that made one even as arrogant and carefree as Sorin cringe. Hurt.

"You are different now," Avacyn said after a time, turning to face him again. The anger had bled out of her, making her look very tired. "Less than you were when I saw you last. Something has happened to you."

"Many things have happened to me," Sorin responded. "As many things have happened to you. That is the nature of ones who live as long as we do. But my own experiences can wait. Tell me, are you all right? Did those demons hurt you?"

Avacyn laughed. It was a short thing, but real. A rich, airy sound like bells chiming on the wind.

"No. Those creatures like to boast, but when it comes down to it none of them can withstand my power even when they number in the thousands. Griselbrand was one of their greatest, and he only managed to trap me through luck rather than skill. I spent my months locked in there fighting all of them again, dispelling their essences countless times within the darkness of the Helvault."

She paused, seeking words. The vampiric planeswalker made no motion, letting her take her time. This was obviously part of what troubled her, and it would not do to push her into something she was not comfortable with.

"I thought I would never escape," she whispered, just a touch of fear edging into her voice. "My fate to fight my charges till the end of time, never to see light again. Never to see you again."

"I'm sorry," Sorin said again, just as soft. He understood her anger now, understood why she was so hurt. He was her father, and despite everything else in their relationship that meant he had certain responsibilities. Responsibilities he had failed to live up to.

"I know," she responded, getting out of her chair.

He rose as well, motioning for her to come closer. She did, and as she came within reach he drew his arms around her. Avacyn stiffened a little, unsure of this latest development. But, after a few moments, she slowly returned the hug.

They stayed that way for a short time, and for a moment Sorin could almost set everything else aside and just take this simple pleasure of a father embracing his daughter. Her grip on him relaxed as the minutes ticked by, but they both knew that it couldn't last.

Slowly, reluctantly, Sorin withdrew. With one hand he brushed aside a lock of his angel's hair, gently kissing her on her forehead.

"I'll try to visit more often," he said softly, looking down at his daughter's face.

"I'd like that," Avacyn whispered, holding on to him for a few more seconds before letting go. Retrieving her spear, she walked to the edge of the cliff and, unfurling her wings, jumped. She dropped only a fraction before taking fully to the air, making her way to the revelry in the town below.

Sorin watched stoically as one of the few things he truly cared for departed. He knew that she would be all right. He would make sure of it. There would never be a repetition of this tragedy, staved off only at the eleventh hour. He wouldn't let her suffer like that again.

So he stood there and watched the flight of his daughter, his angel of hope, and smiled.


	2. The Love of an Angel

The Love of an Angel

He's fighting again.

It's devils this time, tormenting a family fleeing to Stensia from the ruins of Kessig. They came out of the shadows of their fire, cackling and delighting in the screams of the children. Tired and hungry, there's no way they can fight back against them. At best they'd die quickly, at worst they'd be their playthings for a few hours until they became bored. Devils don't have the imagination of demons, but they can be cruel enough in their own ways.

And then he appeared, sword in hand just like so long ago. He guts one before kicking another into the flame, stabbing it as it howls. The little ones try to converge on him, but as quickly as air he moves among them, slicing them into bloody bits. They simply can't keep up with him, can't keep track of the whirlwind of death that moves among them. His sword flickers, taking off a monster's hand before he turns and impales another that tries to jump him from behind.

The family has long since run by this point, though not far. I see them at the edge of the clearing, a mother watching fearfully as she holds onto two children. Their father, wounded, kneels next to them, breathing hard as their savior battles with the dumb monsters.

He's doing well. Most of the devils have either died or fled by this point, his sword cutting through their flesh as easily as cloth. The only ones left are the bigger ones who like the prey to fight back a little, or the especially stupid ones who can't tell they're outclassed.

I watch him from above, putting his life on the line for strangers with no thought for his own safety. He hasn't changed. He's exactly the same as he was so many years ago.

He's exactly the same as when he was alive.

Traft roars, a strange noise that sounds like it's coming from the end of a long tunnel, and clashes with the largest of the devils, a red skinned beast with curved horns and black claws. I'm there in an instant, my sword going deep into the thing's side. It howls and swipes at me, but I take to the air before it can connect. And then, faster than even I can blink, Traft's blade takes it in the throat. His ghostly sword flickers a little at it parts flesh, but it hurts the thing all the same. It falls to the ground, motionless before the energy holding its form together disperses into the aether.

Their strongest defeated, the few remaining devils join their comrades and flee, chattering childish insults as they run. Traft ignores them; turning to the family he saved. He raises his sword in salute, looking just as regal and strong as he did in life. Then he walks away, fading as he does.

They can't see him, but I can. From my vantage point above I observe the geist of the man they named a saint as he moves across the land. He's looking for more victims, more people to help. They're not in short supply these days, with Avacyn missing. Our leader, the indomitable archangel, has been gone for months. And ever since then Innistrad has been rapidly slipping into madness. Traft has always been a sword against the darkness, but he's been appearing more and more frequently as the world breaks apart at the seams.

I worry for him. I've always worried for him ever since he took those steps to confront the demons alone that day, moving to save the girl captured simply to lure him out. I worried for him as I rushed to his aid, rushed to rescue him from his fate, to save him from his death at the hands of the demon Withengar. He overworked himself as a living man, and he acts no differently now as a geist. But he only has so much energy…

He stumbles a bit, almost appearing to trip over nothing. He flickers a little, fading from the world a bit before he solidifies his grasp on reality. I float closer, and he looks up at me. He doesn't ask for help. He just smiles at me and keeps moving, trying to find someone who needs to be saved.

I almost curse him for a fool, pushing himself like this. If he's not careful he'll lose form entirely, putting himself out of commission for weeks at best. A worst, he might lose the ability to retain his shape ever again. His power is not infinite. Even geists have boundaries they cannot cross without consequence.

But then again, I am also a fool. I should be with the rest of the angelic host, doing what I can to stem the tide of evil washing over Innistrad. Avacyn is gone, vanished without a trace. The world is falling apart and monsters long held at bay are reveling in their newfound freedom. I should be in Gavony, helping to protect Thraben, or in Nephalia killing ghouls and dispersing geists.

But I cannot leave him to fight alone. I did once, so long ago. I left him to do battle, and he died. And when he called for me, I came too late. The world lost a good man that day, and it became darker for it.

So I cannot leave him. The spirit of this man, this beautiful man with his shining, hero's heart, cannot ever be lost again. He must always have a companion, another sword to give him aid against the horrors that approach in the night. And I will give him that blade; give as much of myself as he gives for the people he forsook his rightfully earned reward for. The people he denied himself the Blessed Rest to protect.

Because his is a soul brighter than those of angels, the righteousness within him glimmering like a beacon to me. He will never stop, never put down his sword. If confronted with all the hosts of hell he would simply move forward and battle them head on. There would be no compromise, no hesitation, just a single-minded drive to stop the guilty from preying upon the innocent.

And I love him for it, for being who he is. So I cannot call him a fool, cannot curse him for pushing himself so hard. Because I love him, I love the spirit of this man, this champion, taken so cruelly from the world by the scheming guile of demons. I love him with everything I am, even if such a thing is almost unheard of among my kind.

So I will always be there, by his side. Even as the world falls down, I will be there for him. I will always be his angel.


	3. Let Them Be

Let Them Be

Deep below the metal skin of a distant world, a strange creature sat upon his throne in thought. One clawed hand rested upon the strange chair, built for his uniquely shaped body. In truth, he hardly ever used the thing. Sitting and giving orders was not his way. That separated him too much from what he felt was his duty, his reason for existence. He preferred to work, to labor with his own hands. That was the way of things, should have always been the way of things. To work was to live. There was no other path.

In his relatively short existence it had always been so, and he was untroubled by this. Why should he be, when in truth it brought him joy? He was powerful, relied upon. Without him industry would grind to a screeching halt. But he would never do such a thing. To build, to smelt metal, was the most wonderful experience in this or any other world. Even beyond his obligation to his society, it was everything that he was.

But he was troubled, and he decided that he must devote all his thoughts to his quandary. Normally he would have busied himself with the never-ending work his position demanded, taken his mind off his issues and returned to them later. To sit and think on something wasted valuable time, after all. It was better to act, to commit oneself to the deeds at hand, than to lay about in frivolous pondering. But this was simply too large to put off. So he sat and brooded, wishing all the while that he could work instead.

And so it was that Urabrask, Praetor of New Phyrexia, once Mirrodin but no longer, devoted all this effort to a singular question.

"The Mirrans have fled into the Furnace Layer. What shall we do about them?"

Days had been given to this. Days had been given and tossed aside as Urabrask wrestled with himself over what was to be done with the defeated natives of this metallic plane. On the one hand, he should inform his fellow Praetors of their arrival and hold them here to be processed into the Phyrexian regime. It was the proper course of action. He knew this, knew it as surely as he knew it was his duty to keep the forges running. But on the other hand…

On the other hand, Urabrask could not bring himself to move.

It was maddening! The Mirrans were broken; he'd given weapons and resources toward that very goal. But now, at the end of it all, he could not order the final stroke that would destroy them utterly. He could not bring them into the glory of the Great Work, the perfection that it bestowed. And this only led to another question as he tackled with what to do about the Mirrans.

Why? He didn't know if it was towards his hesitation or to the fact that the Mirrans had to be inducted into the glory that was Phyrexia. It shouldn't have come up, his course should be clear. But again and again when he thought of what to do with the Mirrans, it came to him. But if that was all, it would have not have been nearly as horrible as the torturous, rebellious thought wormed its way into his mind when he marshaled his will to order their end.

_It's such a pity._

Urabrask growled and slammed his fist onto his throne, cracking it. His other hand gripped the armrest just shy of ripping it off. His own mind betrayed him, betrayed his obligation to the glorious whole that was Phyrexia!

But to do so, to extinguish their last pitiful flames, filled him with a strange and unfamiliar emotion. He couldn't name it, couldn't quantify it. All he knew was that destroying these refugees would bring him even more discomfort than he felt now just thinking about it. He stood at the precipice of a line, one foot raised to cross. Once done, there would be no going back.

Was that what he truly feared, the fact that his decision would be final? No, that couldn't be it. He'd made decisions of that nature before. His position required conviction, that his word be the end of all matters. The Great Work demanded nothing less. So what was it then? Why did the elimination of these dregs torment him so?

He was… concerned. That was the closest he could come to it. But it wasn't concern like ensuring the metal remained pure, or making sure imperfections did not appear. This was different, and in the end it was the only thing he could think of that stayed his hand.

His instincts battled with each other, crashing about in a maelstrom that tossed him from one extreme to the next. He was at war with himself, his core split between two diametrically opposed positions. Only one could win, compromise an impossible dream. A choice had to be made.

_I have spent days on this,_ Urabrask thought. _It beggars belief._

Days, though it felt like an eternity. Days since his subordinates had posed this question to him, their own faces trying and failing to hide the same thoughts that had agonized him all this time. His lieutenants waited outside for his reply, maintaining order in the meantime and ensuring production continued uninhibited. But it could not last. He had to give an answer.

Urabrask stood, reaching his full height. He strode to the door, pushing it open easily. A variety of faces looked toward him, each different and yet similar in the perfection they had achieved in becoming one with the Great Work. None spoke, but the question was there just as it had been from the beginning of this whole affair.

"Let them be," he said softly, his powerful voice nothing more than a whisper on the wind.

And then he continued forward, making his way toward the furnaces. Enough effort had been spent on this. It was time to get back to work.


End file.
